


never a rose

by monomania



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Coma, Florists, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14161026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monomania/pseuds/monomania
Summary: Yuuri peels away the mental layers that restlessly cover his believer’s mind; an exceedingly desperate Yuri Plisetsky, he finds with a hint of amusement, and a largely hopeless Viktor Nikiforov.(Twenty-five months, eight days and seventeen hours later, and Viktor still hasn’t woken up.)





	never a rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [izzyisozaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzyisozaki/gifts).



> yet another story born from nowhere, but just as self-indulgent as the previous one. my heart can't have enough of emotional hurt/comfort and all the fluff involving these two. i hope you can forgive me. :>
> 
> beta'd by the lovely @izzyisozaki, who's also the recipient of this gift! make sure to give her some love ♡  
> without further ado, i hope you enjoy! (◕ᴗ◕✿)

“They’re beautiful,” Ekaterina says, voice full of gratitude and grief as she holds a small bouquet of an assemblage of white daisies, sparse sunflowers and dutifully arranged baby’s breath, wrapped about in a ribbon colored in bright yellows and kinder shades of cream. She admires the gift with a soft smile one last time before placing them on Viktor’s bedside table. “Thank you. I’m sure he loves it.”

Yuri doesn’t give her much more than his usual grimace, but the woman has known him for long enough as to take even his briefest nod as a sign of support, as well as an offer of comfort. When he approaches the mattress at the center of the bedroom (while avoiding the sickeningly white curtains placed just about everywhere, his leopard-print coat a few degrees too warm for the Japanese mid-summer heat), Ekaterina tenderly brushes her son’s hair out of his sweetly sleeping eyes.

“He looks so handsome, even like this,” she comments, more to herself than to anyone else, paying extra care as to not leave his forehead much too bare—he'd hate that, and she knows it all too well. “Even like _this._ Oh, Vitya, look who’s come from mother Russia to see you. It’s little Yura! Won’t you say hello?”

The boy fidgets about the room whenever Mrs. Dmitrieva turns to look his way with expectant, crystal-like eyes. Needless to say, he feels more than a little perturbed at how she chose to cope with all of this. _Of course_ , he thinks. _Of course, he won’t say hello._

Twenty-five months, eight days and seventeen hours later, and Viktor Nikiforov still hasn’t woken up.

 

Katsuki Yuuri has been dead for seven years.

He remembers the occasion remarkably well, as if it all had just been put on some sort of cruel and constant imaginary replay—a careless thing, in all honesty, that caused a real ruckus among his family and friends. And for reasons he has yet to figure out, his soul hadn’t lived on to eternal rest, instead choosing to mop around the world of the living like something straight out of a horror movie.

And it almost became one as well, if the usual fate for spirits roaming among common folk was anything to go by. Yuuri has his own soft nature and Minako’s very convincing threats to thank for, and that’s just barely scratching the surface, since, _well_ —

“A god,” the shaman had voiced, incredulous, by the ends of his very first year as a part of the supernatural world. “ _You_?”

Yuuri scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. He'd only given some advice to a vaguely suicidal and very much in mourning woman _once_ , and suddenly word got around that a new guiding spirit had been wandering by the borders of the sleepy Hasetsu. The rumor spread like wildfire and became substantial enough to strengthen his link to the world of the living, and so the Heavens decided to offer him the opportunity of a lifetime.

(Of a deathtime? Posthumous? He wasn't exactly sure.)

“It was an honest accident,” he offered, pursing his lips into a thin line. “Plus, at least it feels like something worth doing.”

Minako, who’d been capable to see ghosts since birth and found herself unable to turn away a dreadfully lost and inconsolable Yuuri, came to the conclusion that the best possible outcome for her yearlong friend had just conveniently fallen into his lap. With endless reassurances and one too many bottles of sake, the plans for his time as a higher entity started to overflow. Now, four years later, and they've established a clean and agreeable routine.

(The ever-growing god of Guidance— _him_.)

He was the one person people desperately went for in times of grief and anguish, praying endlessly so their recently-deceased loved ones could find the holy light without any major commotions. Yuuri, on the other hand, would go to the very recipient of those prayers—and quite literally walk them to the celestial gates of Heaven. There were also those who asked for emotional aid and even admonition of a third-party, both cases of which, if deemed necessary enough to be worth the trouble, Yuuri would do his best to slip uninhibited beside the person in question, whisper a handful of his soft, sacred suggestions into their ears, and go on his merry way.

Overall, it was a wholesome occupation, and Yuuri had been delighted with the prospects of being of significant help to so many people.

It had been particularly difficult when the day to guide his parents finally came, especially since they arrived both at once, and weren’t able to recognize him. An accident, he’d been told. But the certitude of his sister’s well-being was enough to appease his heart. He'd started paying her visits in secret ever since; watched her develop meaningful relationships and enlarge the family business in a timely fashion. He also witnessed her moving on, bit by bit—a truly beautiful, fascinating sight.

However, when a circumstance comes about that Yuuri falls as the recipient of a rather uncommon request, he is taken by both anxiety and excruciating curiosity.

It's a boy, clearly incapable of a mere sliver of Japanese and who unknowingly perpetrates all possible disrespect at the shrine, with not a single bow, forgetting to join his hands in ovation and glossing over the sole coin that usually is given to solidify the divine exchange. His wishes fall upon a person who is not yet dead. Utterly unusual, yes—but something about the request, either tied to the feeling of conspicuous change from the person earnestly making his hopes known, or the individual whose existence became so singular as to inspire such an atypical turn of events, makes Yuuri’s heart ache for the singularity of it all. He takes the boy’s prayer into his arms like he'd embrace the oldest of friends: welcoming, understanding, and enlightened.

He peels away the mental layers that restlessly cover his believer’s mind; an exceedingly desperate Yuri Plisetsky, he finds with a hint of amusement, and a largely hopeless Viktor Nikiforov.

The foreigner had gone to Japan for work, and a few years into his careless routine, he’d been put into a coma after a traffic accident; much like Yuuri’s own parents, and the similarities have his ghostly heart painfully constricting in a surge of overprotectiveness. The god of Guidance leaves his celestial altar, picks his favorite civilian clothes, and decides a walk to Hasetsu’s Castle is much more fitting than a mere instant transportation—if even Viktor’s soul hadn’t resisted the charms of Yuuri’s own hometown, he’d be the last person to turn such an opportunity away. Strangely, however, he encounters the Russian’s shadow hidden among the threes, occupying a solitary bench with only a meager view of the grand Edo-period architectures.

Yuuri can feel loneliness resonating within him and yet, if he had to describe it, the sensation was intrinsically close to floating. Balmy and fresh like a summer breeze, much softer than the mattresses back at his unnecessarily spacious shrine and sporting a distinct sweet aroma of pastries and get-well flowers. He also notices that, for Heaven knows how long, this man remains asleep out of his own volition; like he could only find peace and quiet away from the bitterness congruous with reality.

“Aren’t you going inside?” he asks, startling the wandering soul out of his daze. “I’ve heard it’s even more beautiful than the view from out here.”

Electric blue eyes stare him back in a slight awe, but for some reason, Yuuri’s question suddenly startle laughter out of him. The man shakes his head good-naturedly, the amused crinkles at the corner of his eyes melting away into something sad and unbearably empty. The god almost has to avert his gaze, but ultimately refuses to do so; this is why he’s here, after all. _I’m here to help_ , he chants against the corners of his mind. _Please, let me help._

Strangely, the urge to do just that is greater than ever before.

“I like it from all the way back here,” Viktor provides. “It feels right.”

 _Like an unfolding spectacle_ , he doesn’t say, but is nonetheless understood. Yuuri hums, taking a seat by the bench next to him, keeping a respectable distance.

“Don’t you miss home?” he asks.

Viktor dismisses it with a shake of his head. “I came to Japan for the flowers—that’s what I work with, actually. And they’re of the most beautiful kind, in here. You can’t see the cherry blossoms now, but hydrangeas surely are delightful at this time of the year.”

His voice trails off as it muses something about heartfelt emotions, and Yuuri finally understands the reason behind his overwhelming presence and captivating fragrance; a florist, always acutely aware of the meanings behind his devices, deliberately buried under the passionate connotations roaming each and every single one of them.

Like this, his only duty is to observe and live among them, thoroughly devoted.

“Are you familiar with one Yuri Plisetsky?” Viktor freezes at the mention of the name and silence blooms between them, thus the god rushes to add, “He asked for me; he’s worried about you.”

The man snorts, but not without a tinge of sadness.

“Worried I’ll die before I teach him what I’m due?”

“Worried about your well-being,” Yuuri promptly corrects.

They let a beat pass them by. A soft, fresh breeze blows the loose leaves off of the tall trees shielding them from the world, and one too many cicadas contrive the absolute, boisterous summer chorus. With their eyes locked, it’s like they converse of untold experiences and connect through warm, lingering gazes. He makes Yuuri feel strangely human, sporting a shadow of a flourishing infatuation.

“Who are you?” he asks. Spirits can usually recognize higher entities rather easily, so Yuuri almost feels a little offended.

“My name’s Yuuri,” he grants instead. “I’m here to help.”

Viktor nods, visibly deep in thought, but does not utter a word about ceasing his wandering about Hasetsu or going back to his withering body. Yuuri considers his options, copiously charmed by the sight of him, and decides to make a compromise.

“I’ve heard much of your expertise,” he begins, a pinprick of anxiety threatening to disarray his thoughts altogether. He chooses his words with graceful care as the plan is gingerly laid out about his head, ever-so-quietly. “As fate would have it, my shrine feels rather soulless during most seasons, and I would like to appoint you to nurse the gardens into a respectable condition. What do you think?”

Suddenly, it’s like the world has been made anew, and the lifeless glass covering Viktor’s eyes shimmer with brilliant and overwhelming light.

“So you like flowers?” he cries, delighted. “Who would’ve thought! I must see this shrine at once!”

His sentiment wasn’t due acknowledgement of his abilities or the likelihood of being left to roam for longer, but rather by having him partake in what might as well be Viktor’s only passion in life.

Yuuri feels mesmerized.

They walk for almost two hours, give it or take, but whatever bit of their lives that is shared in-between the comfortable stretches of silence feels nothing but entirely wholesome. Viktor talks about his dog, about Russia, and about flowers—the different sizes and shapes and colors, their meanings, their beauty, and the sentiment they evoke under the many layers of the mortal consciousness. Yuuri speaks of his family, of his mentor, of wide varieties of tea, and of dreams that overtake the vision under his eyelids in illustrious lullabies.

Although Yuuri doesn’t recall being passionate about flowers back when he was alive, he clearly remembers his mother holding them in deep regard; when she passed, the small, round woman had with her a soft, baby-pink carnation carefully secured at the top curve of her ear—likely by his sister’s doing. Over the years, he’d seen an untold number of people come and go, and with them, a wide variety with blossoms to accompany them to the afterlife; so it’s only natural for Yuuri to cast a light of mourning over them, but nonetheless escorted by a strong mixture of love and admiration.

Once their journey comes to an end, Viktor asks what kind of feelings he must convey through his work, and spends hours taking one too many things into consideration as he assembles a list of a few species to be sown. He breeds peace, strength, victory and positive energy, divides them by seasons, and with a snap of his fingers, Yuuri turns the proposal into reality; a stunning and benevolent collection of flowers of all kinds. They enjoy it for the rest of the day, having tea and sweet buns at the margin of the temple’s small lake filled with nature sounds and koi fish. The rainy season just started to show its colors, thus petrichor dances around the aroma of many flowers, creating a very vivid picture of what one would call peace of spirit—befitting of their time, and place.

Later in the day, when the hues of the dusking sky shift the ground’s temperature and even the scent permeating in the air, Yuuri offers Viktor an agreeable payment for his services, which he immediately turns down.

“This is enough,” he says, absent-mindedly, his gaze never leaving the magnificent sight of a garden that now towers over the shrine’s meek bushes.

“Are those flowers your favorite?” Yuuri asks, curiosity seeping through the fissures well-cultivated by time and solitude.

Viktor doesn’t give him a verbal answer, but the imagery in his head is so vivid that Yuuri can do little to help himself. With a wave of his hand, he materializes a single, in full-boom, white rose. The Russian immediately flushes in flattered surprise, weakly extending his hand without being prompted to. He takes it, and Yuuri can feel embarrassment creeping up his neck in full force.

“I-I’m sorry, I was just, _ah_ ,” he stammers helplessly, his blush overpowering Viktor’s in a matter of seconds, “trying to find a way to repay you.”

The man purses his lips, as if taking something into consideration. Nodding to himself, he secures all possible steps into Yuuri’s personal space, and quickly tucks the rose atop the arch curve of his ear. His smile is as blinding as the sun, and the god can feel himself falling for his unadulterated charms.

“Like I said,” he grins, the glow of his eyes similar to the one he bears for the flowers alone. His hand, still next to Yuuri’s face, comes to boop softly against his button nose. “This is enough.”

_Oh, dear._

It’s been quite some time since Yuuri felt _alive_ like this, and something about Viktor’s expression makes his mind-reading abilities wholly unnecessary—the Russian feels very much the same, and is just as smitten as Yuuri is. They don’t know how much time passes by them, but both refuse to avert their eyes from each other.

“If I go back, would I still be able to see you?”

(Yuuri can feel his hesitance. He knows a physical body will demand all kinds of strength after over two years of sitting idle, and that colors Viktor with great worry. But as so many other things in life, some of the hardest paths are the the only ones truly worth taking.)

It’s entirely inappropriate and highly frowned upon, but the answer is already at the tip of his tongue.

“ _Yes_.”

Viktor beams in joy, his pretty mouth shaped like a heart as relief and adoration take over his features. Taking a step back, his form now slightly see-through as he fades away to find the way back home, Viktor calls, whilst the first half of the most dazzling of duets plays along:

“Come find me, Yuuri.”

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is loved! (◕▿◕✿)  
> you can also find me at https://odinbytiye.tumblr.com/


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